The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  The black picked up its pace as the column of huge freight wagons took shape about three hundred yards away. Buck let the mule have its head. On the books, the leggy john with the soft, rust-colored muzzle and keen eye, was listed as Ezekiel, but everyone called him Zeke. He was Buck’s favorite among the dozen or so saddle mules kept by the Box K. Zeke had an easy stride in all three gaits and a level-headed disposition that made him dependable in the tightest situation, but to Buck the mule’s greatest attribute was its withers, that narrow, muscular taper at the base of the neck that was so vital in keeping a saddle firmly in place, rather than slipping to one side or the other.

  High withers were so uncommon on mules that few people would judge that they even had any. Normally low withers and a reputation for orneriness was what kept most men astride horses, although Buck considered a good mule the equal of any six horses for sure-footedness and mountain smarts.

  Buck had intended to transfer his bedroll and valise to the mess wagon as soon as he reached camp, but as he guided Zeke between a pair of high-sided freighters, he spotted trouble brewing ahead and knew his gear would have to wait.

  Near the north end of camp, Peewee Trapp was standing in front of his morning breakfast fire, short legs spread wide as if to brace a strong wind. Ray Jones, Joe Perry, Nate Evans, and several others from the Box K crew were bunched solidly behind him.

  Facing them was a smaller group of men, although no less grim-looking. Mitch Kroll stood at its forefront, reminding Buck of an ox reared up on its hind legs, wearing pants and boots and a narrow-brimmed hat. Mitch’s fists hung at his side like tooth-scarred hams, and his massive shoulders were hunched forward as if contemplating a charge.

  Buck rode in their direction without hurry, taking time to assess the situation before planting himself squarely in the middle of it. No one spoke as he came up, or even looked around until he stopped about ten feet out. “What’s the trouble?” he asked.

  “Who the hell are you?” Mitch snarled, throwing him a quick, irreverent glance.

  “I’m Buck McCready.”

  Mitch snorted, and Peewee said: “Ain’t no trouble, Buck. We was just hammerin’ out some details.”

  But Ray wouldn’t let it drop that easily. “Kroll thinks he’s gonna take the lead-dog position, Buck,” he said. “Thinks the rest of us is gonna chew on his dust all the way to Montana.”

  “It ain’t been decided yet who’s takin’ the lead position,” Mitch countered, glaring at Peewee, “but I sure as hell ain’t takin’ no orders from runts.”

  Buck’s hand slid unconsciously to the bullwhip fastened snugly to his gun belt. In his mind’s eye he saw Mase standing tall and firm, taking guff from no man. Taking a deep breath, he said: “Well, that’s not entirely true. You’ll take orders from me first, then from Milo Newton if I’m not around. Peewee has the point position and he’ll keep it until I decide differently. Ray brings up the rear with the mess wagon. It’ll be his job to see that nobody falls behind. I ain’t decided yet where I’m going to put you.”

  Mitch’s eyes narrowed. “I ain’t used to playin’ second fiddle, bub, especially to kids and runts and blow-hards like Ray Jones.”

  “It won’t be hard to get used to,” Buck replied firmly. “The Box K has been running its trains this way for a long time.”

  “I ain’t a Box K man,” Mitch returned, his smirk broad enough to reveal a pair of yellowed incisors peeking through the shaggy curtain of his mustache. “Maybe us independents ought to make our own way north. We could wait for you Box K boys in Virginia City, if you don’t take too long gettin’ there.”

  Glancing at the men standing behind Kroll, Buck thought their alliance seemed oddly placed. He recognized the blocky Sandwich Islander called Big Kona, and Little Ed Womack, whose swamper was thought to harbor bad luck. Neither seemed particularly comfortable with the way things were shaping up. Speaking to Womack, Buck said: “Is that the way you feel, Ed?”

  Little Ed quickly shook his head. “No, it ain’t.”

  “How about you, Big Kona?”

  Keho Kona’s voice rumbled from deep within his broad chest. “Mitchell Kroll does not speak for me. I sign the paper to haul for Jock Kavanaugh. That is whose company I drive for.”

  Buck glanced at the last two men—Garth Lang and Lyle Mead. Garth looked worried, but Buck couldn’t read anything from Lyle’s expression; he stood silently to one side with a stubby cigarette stuck in one corner of his mouth, his left hand thrust into the pocket of his coat. “What about you two?” Buck asked.

  Garth shrugged and said: “I contracted with Jock.”

  Lyle hesitated, but, after an uncertain glance at Kroll, he allowed that he was hauling for Kavanaugh, too.

  “Spineless pieces of shit,” Mitch grumbled. “I ought to bust all your balls with a hammer.”

  “That’ll be enough of that,” Buck said sternly. “Mitch, you’ve got a contract with the Box K. Breach it and Jock’ll see you in court before you get your mules stabled.” The burly teamster stared back darkly, and Buck squared his shoulders, suddenly angry. “It’s a long haul to Montana, Kroll. I want this settled before we pull out.”

  For a minute, Mitch’s glare was like a steel shaft welded between the two men. Then the crazy gleam abruptly left his eyes and his broad shoulders came down. Looking Buck up and down, he said: “You’re that kid Mase Campbell pulled outta a Sioux camp some years back, ain’t cha’?”

  “I am,” Buck acknowledged.

  “And now you’re takin’ his place.”

  “Nobody’ll ever take Mase’s place.”

  Mitch laughed jeeringly, but Buck understood that, in his own way, the big man was backing down. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Buck said: “There’s one more thing. A couple of women will be traveling with us. One of them’s the representative for Bannock Mining. Her name is Gwendolyn Haywood. The other is Jock’s daughter, Dulce. Miss Haywood is traveling with a couple of male associates, a camp tender and a bodyguard. You’ll meet them tonight, although I expect they’ll keep to themselves as much as possible. Mind your manners when they’re around.”

  Mitch scowled. “This is a muleskinners’ outfit, McCready. If them ladies want to cozy up to polite company, leave ’em ride the president’s car on the U.P.”

  “God dammit, I ain’t gonna argue with you all day,” Buck told Kroll irritably. “You mind your manners when those women are near.”

  A yell from the sage-covered flat to the north thankfully severed any further argument. Buck turned his eyes to where Milo and Rossy Evans were bringing the remuda in off its night pasture. Bigfoot Payne, Mitch’s dull-witted helper, and Little Ed Womack’s Mexican swamper, Manuel Varga, stood outside the wagons with long ropes stretched between them and the wheels of the nearest freighters, creating wings by which to funnel the mules inside the loosely circled wagons.

  The drumming of shod hoofs grew thunderous as the racing herd swept toward the wagons. The feisty snorting and squealing of well-kept animals that hadn’t been worked hard since last fall added to the cacophony. Soon, the camp would be engulfed in braying mules and cursing men, swinging bull whips and halter chains with a vengeance as they sorted out their teams. As the leading edge of the remuda slowed to a trot down the rope funnel, Buck quickly reined Zeke out of the way. “Here they are, boys!” he hollered. “Get ’em hitched and ready to roll. We pull out in twenty minutes.”

  Buck jogged his mule down the line of double-hitched outfits to where the mess wagon was already secured behind Ray Jones’s two big Schuttlers. Dismounting, Buck pulled his gear from the back of his saddle and hefted it into the low-wheeled Stude-baker, packing it securely so that it wouldn’t bounce out. Then he moved around to the front of the wagon and stepped up on the tongue. Bolted to the Studebaker’s left sideboard, just inside the front pucker of canvas, was an oblong oak box reinforced with iron strapping, called the office. A sturdy padlock to which only Buck carried a key hung from the latch.

  Buck
popped the lock and lifted the lid. Inside were several narrow slots, like a roll-top desk turned on its back. Within these slim compartments was the paperwork that would keep the train running—permits, company vouchers, a tin box with enough cash to cover unexpected expenses, and a small, leather-bound journal the wagon master was expected to keep up daily, noting the outfit’s problems and progress.

  Buck added the leather folder Walt had given him, then closed and locked the lid. Standing on the tongue, he ran a rough inventory on the remainder of the load. The bedrolls and personal gear of the muleskinners were stacked near the front, where it would be easy to find in the dark. Foodstuff—potatoes, dried fruits, beans, flour, coffee, and a few cases of canned items—was stowed toward the rear, buffered on either side by casks of side-pork and hams.

  Extra parts for the wagons—a spare tongue; a pair of rough-hewn axles; a carton of big, square lug nuts; wrenches, hammers, wood-working tools to shave and fit the parts; copper wire to patch cracked spokes; kegs of Mica Axle Grease, buckles and coils of leather for harness repair; shovels, picks, axes; several hundred feet of rope for makeshift corrals; farrier’s equipment and a box of iron shoes for the mules—were stacked toward the middle and bottom of the load.

  Stepping off the tongue, Buck saw Milo loping a spotted molly toward him. There was a lever gun booted under the ramrod’s right leg, and Buck muttered to Zeke: “I’d give a twenty-dollar gold piece to know if that’s a Forty-Four Rim-fire.”

  Pulling his mule to a stop, Milo said: “Que pasa, boss?”

  “ ’Morning,” Buck replied, but his attention was drawn now to the southwest, where the sounds of a four-mule hitch pulling a Gilmer and Salisbury mud wagon over the Bear River bridge came to him like the rumble of distant thunder. Behind the coach came a trio on horseback, and he shook his head ruefully. “This ain’t gonna be a normal wagon train at all, is it?”

  “Aw, it’ll shake out in a few days,” Milo predicted.

  “Let’s hope so,” Buck said, but, as his gaze settled on Gwen and her entourage, he thought: There’s trouble in that brew.

  The riders—Dulce on her claybank, Beau, Gwen on a lively-looking chestnut, and Thad atop a well-put-together bay—spotted Buck and galloped ahead through the sage. Milo perked up noticeably when he spotted Gwen. “Who’s the gal riding that copper horse?”

  “That’s Miss Haywood,” Buck said, stepping into his saddle.

  Milo whistled appreciatively. “She’ll be a thing to study on, won’t she?”

  “She’s BMC’s rep,” Buck replied. “I’d watch myself around her if I was you. Women like that generally have sharp claws. Besides, her daddy’s the head of Bannock Mining, and I doubt if he’d think too highly of a muleskinner randying after his daughter.”

  But Milo was only half listening. “Who’s that stiff-looking hoss riding beside her?”

  “That’s Thad Collins, her bodyguard. I’m not sure what he thinks his relationship is with her, but I’m pretty sure Miss Haywood sees it differently.”

  As the riders approached, Dulce called: “Are we on time?”

  “Two minutes to spare,” Buck said, forcing a smile. He introduced Milo to the others, then added, for Gwen and Thad’s sake: “Milo’s second in command. He’ll give the orders when I’m not around.”

  “Miss Haywood,” Milo said, removing his hat with a flourish. “If I’d have known Bannock Mining had such pretty representatives, I’d have sought employment there, instead of with the Box K.”

  Gwen’s face lit up with delight. “Perhaps we could induce you to switch sides.”

  “It’s a definite possibility,” Milo acknowledged cheerfully.

  Scowling, Thad said: “Jock Kavanaugh tells us you’re new to this territory, Mister Newton. What experience do you have as a guide?”

  Milo looked briefly annoyed, then returned his full attention to Gwen. “Miss Haywood, I need to get this rowdy bunch of muleskinners on the road, but maybe later I could escort you in the direction of those mountains yonder.” He nodded toward the Wellsville range. “I haven’t visited them yet myself, but I’ve something of a knack for locating suitable glades for picnics.”

  “That sounds like a splendid idea,” Gwen enthused. “Toward noon, shall we say?”

  “Well, now, Milo’s gonna be busy around noon,” Buck chimed in. “Fact is, he’s gonna be busy for the next few weeks.”

  “Why, boss, it’s a fact I’ve got a heap of responsibility riding on my shoulders, being more or less the heart and soul of this here operation, but I expect I’ll be able to wiggle free from time to time to squire Miss Haywood around. So long as she’s agreeable to it, that is.”

  “Miss Haywood won’t be in need of a squire,” Thad tautly interjected. “I’ve been retained to see to that duty myself.”

  Thad Collins was looking mighty put out, Buck thought with more amusement than he would have expected. The bodyguard’s thin face was flushed, and his little mustache was twitching like bait on a hook, but his ire seemed only to fuel Milo’s impudence.

  “That’s quite all right, old man,” Milo said, mimicking Collins’s stiff, Northeastern dialect. “I doubt if Miss Haywood will require your services much longer, anyway. Perhaps Mister Mc-Cready will have a position for you. Tell me, what experience do you have worming mules?”

  Buck tried to cover his laughter with a strained cough, but, as he watched Collins’s reaction, he was startled by something so subtle, so swiftly there and gone, that he wasn’t sure he’d seen it at all. “Milo,” Buck said curtly, “why don’t you go see if anyone needs help?”

  “Yes,” Dulce said, sounding peeved by the ramrod’s behavior. “You shouldn’t make light of others, Mister Newton.”

  “Aw, Collins knows I’m just funning him, Miss Kavanaugh. Don’t cha, ol’ boy?”

  Collins refused an answer, but Buck noticed that there was no back-down in him, either. It was something to remember, he thought.

  “Go on,” Buck said to Milo, the humor gone from his voice. “Collins, tell O’Rourke to fall in behind the mess wagon.”

  Collins nodded mechanically. “All right, but I’ll remind you that I’m not your message boy, McCready. My responsibility is to Miss Haywood’s protection. I won’t be distracted from that.”

  “You just put O’Rourke where I told you to put him, after that I don’t care what you do.” As Buck pulled Zeke around, he caught Dulce’s eye and motioned for her to ride with him.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Dulce said when they were out of earshot. “I met Mister Newton briefly yesterday and found him charming. I had no idea he could be so … maddening.”

  “That’s a fair way of putting it,” Buck agreed. He glanced over his shoulder. Gwen and Milo were sitting their mounts close together, talking earnestly, while Collins rode off to confer with O’Rourke.

  “Mister Newton’s arrogance doesn’t concern you?” Dulce asked.

  “What concerns me more is the look Collins gave him.”

  “Well, do you blame him? I’d be upset, too.”

  “Collins didn’t look upset to me,” Buck said. “He looked more like a man getting ready to squash a bug, and not questioning his ability to do it, either.”

  “Thad?”

  “Uhn-huh.”

  Dulce looked doubtful. “He didn’t strike me as a … a particularly dangerous fellow,” she said hesitantly.

  “No, he didn’t strike me that way, either. Now I’m not so sure.” He looked behind him once more. Milo and Gwen had broken apart and Gwen was walking her chestnut toward the mud wagon, where Collins waited for her. Milo had disappeared, probably somewhere along the outside of the caravan, and Buck faced forward again with an odd sense of relief. “Will you be all right on your own for a while?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  He smiled and said—“Good.”—then lifted Zeke into a lope.

  As Buck cantered down the long line of wagons, he was pleased to see that the men were hitched and ready to
roll. Thirteen outfits, each comprised of two big freight wagons pulled in tandem, except for the small mess wagon behind Ray’s two Schuttlers. Each outfit was drawn by either a twelve- or fourteen-mule jerkline hitch—six to seven spans apiece, depending on the teamster’s preference. Nearly one hundred feet of wagons and mules stretched along a taut chain, called a fifth chain, that ran from the pull rod under the front wagon to the doubletree behind each span of mules, before terminating at the heels of the leaders.

  The squat, canvas-covered bows on the tall Murphy, Schuttler, and Bain wagons crested at nearly twelve feet above the ground. Some of the wheels stood seven feet or better, the iron-rim tires as much as eight inches wide. The larger lead wagons could carry over three tons of freight when packed tightly, the trail wagons, or trailers, somewhat less, but each outfit would haul close to six tons of freight apiece.

  Watching the train prepare to pull out was enough to stir the blood of even the most jaded muleskinner, and Buck was hardly that. His excitement flared as he approached the head of the column. Peewee was already mounted on his brawny roan nigh-wheeler—the left- or near-side mule—harnessed just in front of his flatbed lead wagon. He carried a coiled bullwhip in his right hand; in his left he held the free end of a sturdy cotton jerkline that ran up the left side of his hitch to the lead team; the line was strung through brass rings fastened to the shoulder harness of each nigh-mule, before being clipped to the bit of his leftside leader.

  Only the nigh-wheeler, at the rear of the long hitch, and the leader, at; the front, were fitted with bridles and bits. The rest wore only halters, fastened to nothing, although Buck knew they would all pull with the hearts of troopers.

  That slim, half-inch cotton line would be Peewee’s only control over his seven teams, other than a ten-foot bullwhip, a leather sack of fist-sized stones for throwing, and a reputation among his mules for tolerating no mischief without just cause. Barring a green team or an unskilled driver, all that was usually required to set an outfit into motion was a short tug on the jerkline to alert the mules that a command was imminent, then a tap to the ribs of his riding mule and a yell to “get up” or “hup.”